


No pets, please

by Frozen_grapes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Cooks, M/M, Steve like Taylor Swift, Tony does not like dogs, Tony does not like pets, Tony takes in human strays only, and that is ok, she's mentioned a lot, some people don't like dogs, the team as family - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 17:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10168004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frozen_grapes/pseuds/Frozen_grapes
Summary: In which Tony takes in stray people, but not dogs. He doesn’tdodogs. Not everyone likes dogs, ok. This preference does not need to be understood, just respected.The dog does not actually show up until chapter 2. Chapter 1 is just setting up the team.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I see a lot of fics where the Team As A Family is rocking and then someone brings home a dog. Tony is usually not ok with this development, until he is. But what if he isn't? I'm not a dog person. I like to look at dogs, and pet them, but I in no way want them in my space. And neither does Tony.

~*~*~

When the Avengers start trickling into the tower after the Chitari invasion, Tony is pleased. 

It starts with Bruce, all uncomfortable shrugs and hesitant glances. Tony gives him a lab, a home, drapes himself across Bruce whenever he can get away with it, talks science until he’s not sure he’s actually talking science or just muttering words that spark Bruce’s interest until, hey, look at they, they’re creating _new_ science. 

“It’s perfectly fine, Cookie,” he soothes dismissively, eyeing the vat of acid on Bruce’s counter. “We’ll just slap a couple patents down and gets my lawyers involved, and then it can even be considered science and not necessarily illegal.”

“We’ll?” Bruce questions doubtfully, moving a few beakers away from the writhing mass of gelatinous goop that produces an acid that eats through organic and inorganic materials that they’ve managed to somehow create. “I’d prefer if your name was the only one associated with this, actually.”

“Gotta think of the bigger picture, Cupcake,” Tony says absently, watching the mass eat through counter and land on the floor with a wet sounding splot. “Like how are we going to contain this?”

Bruce sighs, but is grinning as he reaches for a modified basin. 

Watching Bruce come out of his shell is satisfying, fulfilling in a way few things are. It takes his mind off of Pepper leaving, about the fact he’s not sleeping, about dreams of stars and endless night sky and the brutal clenching in his chest before everything fades to black. 

But, yes, science. And all mad scientists have bags under their eyes and manic expressions and occasionally tremble from exhaustion and stress. It’s all good. And, honestly, he’s been surviving like that for _years_ , only now he’s got a Brucie to occasionally feed him and ply him with tea, and let Tony cuddle against him on the couch while Bruce reads out loud in the most soothing tone of voice that occasionally puts Tony to sleep for longer than two hours. 

Then there’s Clint. 

And to be honest, Tony has no idea when Clint shows up, or even which room he’s sleeping in. One day Tony goes to get coffee and Bruce is asleep because it’s somewhere around three in the morning, and the place feels that creepy weird kind of quiet where the silence is thick and expectant and hushed, so Tony is beating back the shivers by talking out loud about a particular craving for Negroni, and how damn hard is it to pour equal parts of gin, vermouth, and Campari into the satisfyingly bittersweet combination. It’s not science, ok, except how scientists do _everything_ better and are superior to most mortals. 

The next morning, or maybe three days later or something, Tony is kind of vague about time when he gets in the zone, he staggers in for coffee and Bruce is setting the table and Natasha is setting out dishes of caponata with pine nuts by each plate, and Clint is at the stove dishing up steaming bowls of Pasta e Fagioli with Escarole. 

Clint gives him a once over, eyeing Tony’s messy, sweaty body, but simply says, “wash your hands.”

Tony thinks he may actually be hallucinating, so he washes his hands, sits down and says thank you. 

The caponata tastes like the two weeks of summer he spent in the Mediterranean with his mother when he was nine. 

The soup reminds him of sitting in the kitchen with Jarvis and Ana and his mother, and Maria is wearing something soft that feels like happiness against Tony’s skin when she leans in and whispers, “white pasta and beans hails from a peasant's kitchen, Anthony.” Her eyes are twinkling, her pale cheeks flushed from the rich red wine Jarvis keeps pouring for her, and normally Tony is terrified when his parents are drinking but when it is just Maria alone she reaches out for cuddles and soft caresses of her hand, and Tony curls up next to her like a contented cat basking in the warmth of the sun streaming through the window in the depth of winter. “Always remember, mio amato bambino, keep your peasants happy and they will reward you with much flavor.” It doesn’t make sense to Tony at the time but Jarvis is laughing and Maria is laughing and Ana looks content, so Tony promises to never forget. 

It’s hard to swallow with all these memories choking him, so Tony reaches blindly for his glass and takes a drink. 

The Negroni is perfect, the flavors rolling across his tongue, and sitting next to him is his second uncle, or cousin, or something, the one he met for the first time when he was twelve and Maria grabbed Tony unexpectedly from boarding school and loaded him on a plane to Italy. The one who draped his arm across Tony’s shoulders and took him away from where Maria was sitting on the couch sobbing and out to the back garden, where the air smells like flowers and dirt and rain. Even at twelve Tony has had gin before, vermouth, can pour cocktails better than most bartenders, actually, but never like this. 

And Tony is kind of broken, already, and doesn’t know how to process these emotions, but the warmth under his skin and the feeling of serenity can be blamed on the alcohol. He holds tight to those feelings three days later when Maria is sitting pale and composed, impeccably groomed, not a hair out of place, jewelry understanded and gleaming in the cabin light, and without looking away from the window she reaches out and lightly touches the back of Tony’s hand. “We won’t tell your father about this little trip, no, bambino?” 

Tony realizes with an exhausted sort of detachment that he is crying. 

Luckily, everyone sitting at the table with him is broken and bruised as well, and no one judges him for crying into his soup and salad. 

“Score one for the mere mortals?” Clint asks dryly, a pleased little smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, holding his glass up and out. 

“You’re my favorite peasant,” Tony vows, clinking their glasses together. 

“I thought I was,” Bruce says mildly, sniffing at the contents of his own drink before taking a tentative sip. 

“No no, Brucie Goosie.” Tony may have to clear his throat and surreptitiously wipe at his face, but the shit eating smirk on his face doesn’t falter even when Clint gets up to refill Tony’s bowl. “You’re my favorite Jolly Green Giant, my Science Bro, my atlantis of stability, my nukey element, my --- “ Tony laughs and dodges the spoon Bruce throws at him. But Bruce is smiling, so it’s all ok. 

“Poor Nat,” Clint grins, “coming in third on the Stark Scale of Favorites.”

“I am neither a peasant nor a mere mortal,” Natasha says smoothly. 

“Which is why we all worship you more than Thor,” Tony agrees, raising his glass hopefully. Something warm and almost forgotten swells inside his chest and makes it hard to breathe for a minute when all three of his dinner guests raise their glasses in return. 

Three bowls of soup, two salads, and surprisingly only the one alcoholic beverage later, Tony staggers to bed and passes out for a record twelve hours. 

After that it becomes routine to mumble aloud and have the vents answer him. For Jarvis to pull up a screen in the lab during one of Tony’s sessions of creativity and show Clint working on a ribollita with Italian sausage and warning him that his presence will be required for dinner tomorrow. For the creepy expectant silence to be beaten back by the sounds of someone else breathing and existing, even freakishly early in the morning. For the warmth of other bodies watching crap tv with Tony, even though none of them are physically touching. 

Natasha also moves in with little fanfare. 

One day Tony wakes up from dreams of stars glittering so brightly they bring tears to his eyes, and there’s Natasha sitting on the other side of his bed, fully armed. “Go back to sleep, Stark,” she says without looking at him. “I’m watching the entrance and exit points.” 

Surprisingly, he does. 

It’s dangerously seductive, having these people flitting in and out of his home, his life. He flies to Dubai for meetings, to London, and then Japan, and from there to California for awhile, thinking he’ll sleep better closer to the ocean and farther away from memories of nuclear bombs. He doesn’t, because sleep is for the weak, but he stays three full weeks because he _misses_ those bastards and that’s. That’s. That’s something, is what it is. 

And then Cap shows up. 

And unlike Bruce, who Tony may or may not have simply shanghaied and seduced into staying with lots of shiny beakers and chemicals and science, and unlike Clint and Natasha who just appeared and decided to infest his home like deadly cockroaches immune to poison, Cap has Jarvis announce his presence and then ignores the open elevator and simply waits in the lobby until Tony gets his shit together enough to invite him up. 

“I just came back from my travels yesterday and learned you had opened your home up to the team,” Cap says, so bright-eyed and earnest and sincere that Tony gets emotional hives just from looking at him, “or else I would have been here sooner. This is really swell of you, Tony.” Cap ducks his head, a blush staining his cheeks and dear lord, the man has freckles, just a faint dusting, but Tony wants to lick them.

“It’ll be nice to be part of a team again,” Cap continues, so quietly, achingly sincere. And now Tony kind of wants to salute the flag and say the national anthem. 

He’s suddenly very aware of the lack of patriotic paraphernalia in his home, and makes a mental note to have Jarvis order something. Anything. Maybe a stuffed patriotic dancing monkey to make Cap feel at home. 

Cap is laughing now, those pretty blue eyes bright and looking right at Tony, right _into_ Tony, and Tony feels light-headed. “I’m good without the dancing monkey,” he says. “And please call me Steve. Where should I put my stuff?”

Right, thinking out loud again and Cap has a bag. “Uh.” Tony stares at the bag. “Where is everyone sleeping?”

Cap frowns slightly, a wrinkle forming between his brows that still manages to look perfect and adorable, fuck you very much super serum. “I ... don’t know?”

“Not you,” Tony dismisses, still staring at the bag and realizing this is actually the first piece of luggage he’s seen brought in, Bruce’s ratty backpack aside. 

“He’s talking to me,” Clint says cheerfully, dropping out of the vents. Cap startles, immediately going into a defensive stance before recognizing that he’s not actually in danger. And wow, those muscles. 

“Thank you,” Cap says, blushing adorably. 

“Going to have to redesign the gym,” Tony agrees with himself absently, before walking away. He thinks he hears Cap say his name, but Clint is there, and should he be buying his misfits clothes? 

Somehow it’s harder to deal with Cap in his space than any of the others. 

And yeah yeah, Daddy issues, self-loathing issues, blah blah blah, fake it till you make it. But still. All of his merry men, and that’s a pun, Natasha, do not break in and give him a lobotomy, are broken and bruised and Cap is well adjusted and self-sustaining. What is Tony supposed to _do_ with him?

“You don’t need to actually do anything, Tony.” Pepper laughs over the video conference, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as she taps on a tablet with brutal efficiency. “I’m sure the longer he lives there the more damages you’ll be able to suss out. You can be annoyingly observant.”

“I’m never annoying, I’m brilliant,” Tony responds automatically. “You think Captain Perfect is a secret Garbage Patch Kid?” 

“Tony.” Pepper pauses and gives him a look over the top of her tablet. “His entire world is gone. Not just his friends, but his _world_. Nobody adjusts to that emotional trauma by battling aliens and then touring the continent for three months.” 

Tony thinks a lot of emotional trauma can be worked out by laying low, hiring a couple hookers, and drinking until you wake up and realize it’s a different season, but he’s smart enough not to say that out loud. Judging by the indulgent look Pepper is giving him, she’s aware of his thoughts. Yet another reason why Pepper is too good for his world. 

“Don’t forget we’re headed to Seoul on Wednesday,” she simply says after accepting a file from her PA, adding notations from her tablet, and taking a sip of coffee out of a cup with a beautiful fine bone pattern that he vaguely remembers buying for her years ago. “Will that be all, Mr. Stark?”

“That’ll be all, Miss Potts,” Tony agrees. But he says it with a minute hesitation before her name, because sometimes he likes the noise of his people around him, without them actually being in his space. And Pepper, bless her, catches that hesitation and ignores him while she continues working, blowing him a kiss before shutting the call down forty-five minutes later. 

“Send her some flowers, J,” Tony murmurs, once the sounds of her have faded from the room. “You know what she likes.”

“Of course, sir.”

Cap shows up to drag him out of the workshop a few hours later with a plate of rosemary and garlic roasted pork, ignores Tony sputtering about how that is Clint’s party trick, and somehow manages to get Tony fed, showered, and curled up on the couch with Natasha in under an hour. 

“I’m not a child.” Tony sulks, is well aware he’s sulking, but Cap was nice enough to give him two tablets and his phone before settling him on the couch with a blanket, so he’s mostly ignored. 

He designs ninja robots with laser lightsabers and detachable, self-automated weapons out of petulant revenge. But when he goes to seek out coffee two days later and finds Natasha sitting at the table looking perfect yet bleeding from the shoulder, Clint perched on the counter with a bruise on his cheek, and Cap sitting next to Natasha with a shit eating grin on his face while Bruce is sipping tea next to various robotic parts carelessly dumped on the kitchen table and talking about magnetization... he’s not able to hide his smile behind his coffee cup before everyone sees it. 

Somehow they work. 

Somehow Tony became the ringleader for the Island of Misfit Toys. 

Clint disappears for weeks at a time and Tony only knows when he’s returned by Jarvis notifying him that Clint is making dinner. Natasha comes downstairs wearing one of Tony’s old college sweaters - and, seriously, should be buying them clothes? Stop laughing, Pepper, what are the proper terms and conditions for taking in strays? 

Cap turns into Steve and starts spending less time destroying gym equipment. Tony drags him to museums and art galleries and hole-in-the-wall restaurants, lets Steve hand out with his bots and draw while he engineers the future, and Steve starts smiling at Tony like he matters. 

They fight together, both personally and professionally. The first time Tony thinks he’s driven the team away for good and has a panic attack in his workshop, he wakes up from his impromptu nap wrapped in a blanket, with Steve sitting next to him on the cot quietly sketching. Clint is sitting on his workbench eating, and a plate of stuffed lamb breast with lemon, ricotta, and oregano is positioned strategically close to Tony. 

Steve has Tony put Instagram on his phone. Tony tweets his account out and is entirely unsurprised when Cap has more subscribers than Taylor Swift. Then he has to explain who Taylor Swift is, which leads to emotional nights listening to All Too Well and Back To December and Last Kiss and what-the-fuck-ever on repeat, and, seriously, Tony doesn’t drink enough for this. But Steve loves posting pictures, and the dorky selfie he took of a battered looking Captain America grinning at the camera with his arm around a helmet-less Iron Man, and fuck you _Teen Vogue_ Tony’s smile does not look _shy_ , goes viral. 

Natasha randomly shows up at meetings or accompanies him on business trips when she’s bored. They eat take out and talk strategy and occasionally sleep platonically in the same bed, because both of them like safe people to not-cuddle with. Between Tony’s ability to schmooze the devil and her ability to ruthlessly and efficiently terrify and destroy unnecessary opposition, SI’s stock soars and Pepper actually takes a vacation. Only for three days and she takes Natasha with her and has Tony foot the bill, but still. 

Bruce gets Tony to drink tea and do yoga with him on Tuesday mornings. Tony feels a little betrayed when he realizes that Pepper has added that two hour block to his schedule and only interrupts him if it’s an emergency. They science, they pass out together in the lab. And sometimes when it’s late and everything is still and there is no sciencing or fighting to be done, they talk. Tony never has to worry about those talks being repeated, and that is a comfort he has only never before had to pay for with Rhodey.

Rhodey comes to visit. He steps out of the elevator to the glad cry of, “Honeybear!” and catches Tony around the waist, picking him up because it makes Tony squawk, and holding him close because it soothes the tight knot of anxiety they both get when they go too long without seeing each other. 

Rhodey sees the way Steve smiles at Tony and Tony smiles back, watches the way Bruce and Natasha allow Tony to invade their personal space, eats the plum and almond cake that Clint bakes and serves with thick, rick coffee. 

That night he sits on the couch with Tony curled up under the protective curve of his arm, drinking expensive whiskey, and presses a kiss to Tony’s temple. “I’m so happy for you,” he murmurs. 

“I’m gonna drive them away,” Tony mumbles. Because while he may be flying blind when it comes to building relationships and friendships with his scruffy looking misfits -- and, seriously, clothing allowance, do not let him forget, J -- he knows his track record, knows his worth as a “consultant” to the Avengers. 

Tony’s favorite thing about Rhodey may be the fact that he pretends not to hear Tony’s hitching breath, and just rubs one of his broad hands up and down Tony’s arm but otherwise doesn’t comment on the fact that Tony is trembling against him. 

Shit falls apart, as shit inevitably does. 

Coulson comes back from the dead, and _fuck you, Fury_ for that particular parlor trick, may you have pineapples shoved up your ass in Hell. 

Fury dies. And then comes back. And then dies again. And then comes back again. And, seriously, is the death defying act a SHIELD hiring requirement? 

Steve gets bored, makes a new friend that also appreciates sexy technology, discovers Natasha is also bored, and destroys SHIELD. 

Tony gets bored, gets his house blown up, saves the president, almost gets Pepper killed, and figures out how to stabilize Extremis. Then he has major heart surgery and takes a guys weekend with Rhodey where he checks himself out of the hospital AMA and hides from everyone who may hate him or be mad at him. 

He also sends Pepper flowers, so, you know, he can cross adulting off his list.

Tony is used to disappointing people. Used to hurting people stupid enough to care about him. But he’s been kind of operating under the moda of keeping his misfits. If they leave because he almost got himself killed again... He doesn’t know how to fix this. 

But unlike everyone else in his life, they don’t leave. 

When Tony returns to New York, sans arc reactor, Clint burns coffee and bakes him a bitter, overcooked tiramisu and glares at Tony until Tony has eaten half of it. Then he climbs into the vents and doesn’t say a damn word. 

It takes three days before Bruce can look at Tony without his eyes turning green, and even then another week before he stops having to take deep, calming breaths and agrees to science with Tony again. 

Natasha is back to leaning against his bedframe when he wakes up, sitting still and vigilant next to Tony and not-cuddling with him. She continues showing up at SI whenever she wants to, though, and makes two board member cry. Tony thinks Natasha gets the Too Used To Being Alone To Ask For Outside Help Vibe he rocked with the Mandarin, and that they’re ok. 

He also finds a pay stub on his dresser showing him that neither he nor Pepper actually succeeded in firing Natalie Rushman and she’s been on his payroll the entire time, so. That’s cool. 

Steve drags him out of the lab and makes him shower. He brings his new friend around -- Sam. New Friend has a name and it’s Sam, remind him of this, Jarvis -- and lets Sam talk at Tony about PTSD and recovery and their search for the Winter Soldier who is apparently Steve’s BFF from back before his ice age. 

Tony can’t stand to see Steve so gutted. It hurts him, makes him want to fix and fix and fix until the broken Garbage Patch Kid that apparently does exist inside Steve turns into the adorable bundle of sweetness and silliness it should be, like a Sprite from Rainbow Bright. 

The next time they’re in the kitchen together and Steve is sadly preparing dinner -- and what even is that mess? Who _sadly_ makes dinner? Those emotions get into the meal, Rogers, and ain’t noone got time for eating sorrow. The world is fucked up enough, thank you very much -- Tony starts gyrating his hips in front of the refrigerator. 

Sam arches an eyebrow at Tony from where he is perched at the counter, mooching Tony’s food, thanks for that, New Friend. “What are you doing, Stark? Is this a physical manifestation of your deeply psychological trauma? Because they make pills for that.”

“Fuck you very much, Birdbreath,” Tony says cheerfully, still grinding his hips with style. At least Sam’s commentary was enough to get Steve to turn around and ... kind of gape at Tony, actually. Not helpful. “I am clearly dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light.”

“Danc...” Steve trails off, still staring at Tony. But slowly, his eyes light up and the warmest smile graces his face. “That’s not dancing.”

And Tony is going to say that if he says he’s dancing then this is dancing, because he is Tony Damn Stark, genius billionaire playboy philanthropist, dancing queen. 

Except Steve crosses over to Tony and slides his hand around Tony’s waist, pulling him in, while his other hand links with Tony’s and is pressed between their chests. And then they’re slowly spinning around in a swaying circle in front of the refrigerator, which does not actually constitute dancing either, Steve, what the actual hell. Tony would say that, he really would, except Steve pulls him closer and all Tony can do is stare up at the tiny smile on Steve’s face and listen as he quietly sings, “I’d like to be my old self again, but I’m still trying to find it...”

“I cannot believe my life actually consists of dancing to Taylor Swift, what have you done to me, Steven.” Steve’s smile widens, just a bit, and his eyes are so damn blue, and Tony is not pulling away. He is not pulling away and he is dancing to Taylor Swift and how is this reality?

“Annnnnndddd, that’s all I can handle of that,” Sam announces. Tony blinks and looks away from Steve to see Sam putting his phone down. “You’re supposed to be feeding us, Rogers.”

Steve is blushing so hard his cheeks are practically purple, and, yep, there are those cute little freckles that Tony still wants to lick, damn your beautiful body, Steve. But he’s smiling as he steps back, so Tony takes that as a win. And since Tony’s stomach is too fluttery for food or coffee, he retreats to his workshop and invents a new material for his team's uniforms and a new interface for SI. 

He rethinks his views on success later when Rhodey texts him a heart eyes emoji and Pepper calls him laughing, and he realizes that Sam had taped their little dance along in the kitchen and Steve had subsequently uploaded it to Instagram with the caption, “something ‘bout it felt like home somehow.”

By the time Tony sees it, Taylor Swift has already shared the post and tweeted about it, Tumblr has crashed, and various permutations of #Stony #CapTony and #IronAmerica are trending worldwide. 

SI’s stock goes up.

Tony will deny forever having Jarvis save a copy to his private server. 

It’s... weird. Unsettling. Rhodey laughs at him when Tony calls to tell him that he’s slowly going insane, which is not a help, damn it Rhodey, you useless ass. 

So he makes everyone new toys and improved gadgets, sometimes staying in his workshop until he physically can’t engineer anymore because he’s shaking from exhaustion. When Steve is home, Tony eats the food Steve brings him, and talks to him the way he’s only ever talked to Bruce and Rhodey. When Steve leaves to chase after his ghost, Tony keeps track of Steve and New Friend, provides monetary support, flies in extra weapons and whatever else he can think of to help. 

He upgrades Jarvis and then sets him searching for everything ever known by anyone about the Winter Soldier, and. Oh. 

“Did you know?” Tony stares resolutely at his ceiling. 

Natasha doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Yes.” She also doesn’t leave his bed.

“Does Steve?”

“Yes.”

That. Fuck, that hurts. It hurts in the delicate, sensitive space behind his ribs where he keeps the smell of his mother's perfume. It hurts in the soft way that Tiberius used to kiss his forehead before stabbing him in the back. Tony is used to the feeling of betrayal but he cannot deal with this from _Steve_ so he closes his eyes and wills himself back to sleep. 

Steve finds out about Tony and Natasha’s talk the very next day. He doesn’t try to force his way into the workshop, just stares at Tony through the glass with wide, heartbrokenly apologetic eyes. 

Bruce runs interference and brings him food. 

Clint FedEx’s him a loaf of ciabatta bread. 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.” Steve’s voice is whisper soft in the quiet stillness of the kitchen, and Tony has never felt less like dancing. 

“Me?” Tony pretends that his hand isn’t shaking as he reaches for the coffee pot. “Because I’m not sure who you were trying to avoid hurting, but my money’s on the brainwashed ex-assassin.”

“It wasn’t him.” Steve stands up from the kitchen table and makes an abortive gesture toward Tony but thankfully doesn’t actually move. “Please, Tony, it wasn’t him. I ... I didn’t want to hurt you, and I didn’t.” Steve blows out a frustrated breath. It’s a little reassuring but equally frustrating that Steve is as bad at words as he is. The silence stretches. 

“I wanted to protect Bucky,” Steve says at last, sounding defeated. “He’s my friend.”

“Wow.” Tony chokes on the laugh that burns its way out of his throat, because ow. This is his father's disappointment and Obie’s falsely protective smiles, and Coulson allegedly dying in the hanger all over again. “I thought I was, too.”

“Tony.” Steve sounds anguished, but Tony is too hurt to want to fix him this time and leaves the kitchen before he can hurt Steve. He’s the former Merchant Of Death - he’s very good with weapons, be them physical, emotional, or verbal. 

They’re still not ok, haven’t done much more than nod at each other in passing -- ok, _Tony_ hasn’t done more than nod. Steve has tried to apologize and talk and feed him. The asshole. -- and then Jarvis gets a hit and Steve and his new friend take off again, and six days later they come back with a scraggly, beaten up ex-assassin. 

And, ok, seriously. Tony may not want to take in another stray, particularly this one, but at least this one comes with clear _yes, buy me clothes_ instructions practically printed on his forehead. 

Bucky doesn’t like to be called Bucky.

Bucky Not Bucky makes it impossible to hate him.

Not Bucky doesn’t trust anyone but Steve, and even that trust has limitations. 

Not Bucky flinches away from physical contact and watches Tony with somber blue eyes. 

Not Bucky has a pretty, shiny metal arm that clearly needs work. 

Tony may spend far, far too much time creating a new arm for Not Bucky. 

Not Bucky doesn’t appear to sleep much. 

Tony manages to coax Not Bucky into his lab by simply allowing him to follow Tony there. Steve, surprisingly, tracks Tony down and pulls him into hug after that. They’re still not really talking. It’s the first time they’ve touched since Tony found out about his parents. Tony locks himself in his workshop for two days, which is a totally logical response. 

When Steve is not exercising or destroying gym equipment, he tends to follow Bucky Not Bucky around with big, hopeful eyes. 

Clint teaches Not Bucky to make Italian rice balls and anisette cookies and a simple mostaccioli mosta, usually between the hours of one and four in the morning. They drag -- ok, Clint drags, Not Bucky kind of awkwardly shuffles half a step behind -- Tony into the living room, ignoring his complaints as easy as you please, with Steve trailing behind more often than not, and sit on the floor to eat. 

So things are working. Things are not ok, but they are slowly easing into a flow. 

And then Steve brings home the dog.


End file.
